


tin lover

by lookingforatardis



Series: Previously on Tumblr [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: AU, Angst, First Meeting, Longing, M/M, Tags will be updated, idk actually i have no idea what this is going to be so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 16:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Prompt: What if Elio and Oliver met for the first time at that disco??Perhaps it was the way he'd looked at me that set me off, made it impossible to recover from the reach of his almost plaintive gaze. In both instances, he'd sent me spinning with no more than the lines in his forehead to guide me back, hold me steady, locked in and incapable of moving. The words he seemed to whisper with nothing but a glance calling back over and over in the dead of night- who are you?





	tin lover

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts for a 20 minute writing sprint and came up with this. Will be continued!

The air of the Disco always was stiff, heavy, the smoke huffed out of too young lungs pressing forward and over the dancefloor. I cannot remember if he saw me first, perhaps it was me who saw him, but we made eye contact through the masses and as if it were playing out before my eyes in a film, I can still see the shift of his shoulders, the press of his lips together, the slight hesitancy with which his eyebrows furrowed as if to ask _have we met in this life or another?_

Marzia pulled my arms into a spin and he was gone, lost to the bodies, his eyes no longer holding me still as they had the moment they met my own. I'd spent weeks wandering back to that spot in hopes of seeing him, never knowing if he'd been passing through or not, if he even existed at all. The more time passed, the more consumed I began with finding him, with proving he was something tangible to be held and held by, but the look of confusion on the faces of others as I'd ask left me with little hope. Almost as if he'd been a figment of my imagination, his mark left only on my mind.

The following year, I was asked to play with a small jazz ensemble one night, something simple, nothing too complicated. My father believed it would help me expand my skills as a musician, though I knew he really only cared that it might allow me to "get out there," a constant worry of him and my mother. To them, staying in and composing—while noble—was a lonely man's gain. I ought to be out with peers, those my own age, enjoying the wonders of youth. Not analyzing and reimagining the work of composers long gone.

We were doing an improvisation when I began zoning out, eyes wandering past the keys as the saxophonist went off. With only a fleeting memory, a dream even, to remember him by, I could not be certain it was him. The eyes met mine and he made the same face as so long ago, a familiar yet aloof expression of an old flame remembering, perhaps. He approached, but slowly, my turn in the piece coming faster than he. I began with a frenzied chord progression that mirrored something I'd heard on the radio once, throwing the key so it matched, his body growing in my peripheral as I built the sound. He was taller than I'd remembered, perhaps I never took the time before to notice.

When the set finished, he was gone once more. Every opportunity to seek him out was stolen as strangers and old friends stepped towards me, their kind words and inquisitions of my playing draining my ability to listen for the one voice that might stop time.

Perhaps it was the way he'd looked at me that set me off, made it impossible to recover from the reach of his almost plaintive gaze. In both instances, he'd sent me spinning with no more than the lines in his forehead to guide me back, hold me steady, locked in and incapable of moving. The words he seemed to whisper with nothing but a glance calling back over and over in the dead of night _who are you?_

Or rather, perhaps it was the way he shifted on his feet that haunted me so. With the build and apparent confidence of a seasoned athlete, surely he didn't need to square his shoulders in such a way that would assert dominance without ever so much as speaking to me. Though the slight tilt of his shoulders upon the second meeting gave him away, the off-balance stance he settled into awkward and stilted as if he could not move either.

I was enthralled.

The bartender, as it turned out, had spoken with him. _American_ , he'd said. _Loud but kind._ Loud? Had he been loud and I not heard? Or had I simply not known which voice to listen to, which words were meant for my ears and not another? Or worse, had I imagined the look between us entirely and read into something which did not exist aside from my conscious imagination? _Oliver_ , he'd said his name was.

Oliver.

A weary traveler, though I'm not sure he'd used those words to describe himself or if it was the flourish of the man making his drinks which decided this particular description. Had he not offered personal information? Nothing of his life? I was disappointed with no leads to follow.

I spoke to him the following night.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile since I've written E/O. Feels nice to return to them <3


End file.
